A/N: A special thanks to s. cinnamon for reviewing! :D this chapter was a bit gruesome when I imagined it, but when written down it's nicer than chap 2, somehow. But actually it's not so.

Chapter 10 Vengeance

There was lots to do for the slaves at camp: food to be painstakingly gathered, wood to be chopped, clothes and dishes to be washes, horses to be fed and cared for, things to be repaired, and master and slaves alike to be fed.

Before more or less then twenty slaves had hurried about, struggling to finish all those chores. Now only Akkarin and Takan were left. Even though Dakova took care of the horses himself and there were less dishes to wash and less food and firewood to be gathered because of the sharply decreased number of slaves, Akkarin felt himself being worked to his limit, and maybe even beyond.

They woke at dawn and worked in frenzy till midnight, and just barely got everything done. What consumed most of their time were the long treks through the wasteland in search of food, water, and firewood. There were bags of grain, but Dakova still wanted vegetables.

They'd take turns going out, one before noon, and one after that, collecting whatever they could find. At camp Takan cooked and Akkarin did any chores there were.

Dakova didn't give any beatings, and Akkarin knew the Ichani wouldn't make anyone of them unable to work, at least not until the new slaves arrived. If they did.

Akkarin had considered if he could overcome Dakova, now that the Ichani was comparatively weak. But Dakova had taken more power then usual form him and Takan every day. And the more disturbing fact: a weaker magician could win a stronger one with tact, but Akkarin, sadly, was very out of practice. Not to mention he'd been quite strong back at the Guild, and therefore hadn't paid too much attention to how to use those ways.

He wasn't sure how many days had passed. Every night it was pure agony to change, with his limbs resisting more work, but he gritted his teeth and managed because he couldn't let Takan do all the work.

Now he knew what not living when being alive was. Even two bowls of porridge for each meal didn't make up for all he used up. His mind was completely blank almost all the time. In a way, it was better then thinking of Ilaia. But oh the pain…

Something was wrong with him and he knew it. Takan was obviously faring better them him; the Sachakan had also seemed to notice Akkarin's problem and had given him a bowl of boiled herbs.

Those were the worst days ever in his life. He simply drifted and stumbled around, working and working, and then collapsing and passing out at once.

And finally Kariko came with the slaves. By then Akkarin felt more dead than alive. He leaned heavily against the cart as he watched without seeing, wondering if he'd finally be able to rest.

/

They would be moving the next day, which paced a kind of numbed and detached dread in Akkarin. He knew he wouldn't be able to stand it. Oh he could barely walk...

Takan woke him a while after he'd passed out in the newly-erected tent and coaxed a bowl of bitter liquid down. Akkarin never felt as broken inside as when he felt Takan's surprisingly cool hand on his forehead and then through half-lidded eyes saw the Sachakan frown and shake his head.

/

The next day Akkarin remained upright for about a mile before his knees gave way under him and he fell slowly to the ground.

Before that happened he had struggled on, his legs gone numb and not even his. Moving then caused a strange pricking sensation that made him want to scream and cry and give up.

But Takan still held his arm, guiding Akkarin forward and telling him they would soon be resting. The Sachakan's voice was calm and encouraging, but Akkarin knew there was no hope left, that Takan just hoped he'd be freed of his agony sooner by using everything up.

The rock-littered ground seemed so soft and welcoming underneath. He heard the procession shuffle past as he lay facedown, waiting for it to end.

A small part of his wasn't willing to give up: he hadn't gotten Dakova, had died a slave. But what was to be done?

The clomping of hooves got louder as Akkarin's senses began to weaken. He felt a kick to his side, "get up, slave."

The calm and slight regret was replaced by horror and despair. He'd planned ―hoped― to die without Dakova noticing until he's passed away.

A line of fire seared across his back. Akkarin knew it was made by a real whip because his shirt was still on. He could distinguish pains now.

"Get up, now!"

Akkarin didn't try. He knew what was coming next: he'd seen before as other slaves had collapsed during the move. He'd probably be dead before the whipping ended.

He felt himself being forced up by a magical force. Then Dakova grabbed his throat and shook his roughly.

"Haven't been right since your supposed great love died, have you?" he threw Akkarin to the ground, where he landed in a twisted heap. "A proper whipping will bring you to your senses."

Akkarin got ready, but something didn't seem right. "Back to his senses"?

A hand grasped his arm, sending a considerable amount of Healing power into Akkarin's body. He realized in horror what was happening, and then the whip came down.

He moaned softly as his back was slashed open again. He was now dimly aware of all the slaves standing silently around and wondered vaguely who was the best at healing now.

After twenty or so lashes Dakova Healed his wounds partially, and ordered two slaves to lift Akkarin onto the cart. Oh the accursed Healing magic… everything in his body was now functioning, but he was still terribly weak and the strips on his back throbbed, sending waves of pain through his body as the cart bumped on.

And Dakova would not let him die. Again.

/

Ironically, after a week lying down, Akkarin felt much better. Winter didn't require so much from him, and he spent most of his time in the slaves' tent. Spring offered water warm enough to wash with, and in summer the tents were erected in a way that not only protected them from the wind at night but also made the interior and dry cool.

The only thing that was different from before Dakova's duel was Ilaia. Every time he thought of her there came a torrent of sorrow and anguish at what would have been if things were not so. The worst thing about it was that the female Ichani, who still visited once in a while and gave Dakova gold or luxuries in exchange for a night with Akkarin, seemed to look more like Ilaia. After the wine Akkarin always got confused for a terrifying yet exhilarating instant, thinking that this woman was the one he loved. Sometimes thinking so did make his task easier…

As he was now even more adept at his work, he had time to plan his revenge: remembering almost-forgotten dueling strategies, coming up with pragmatic ones, and getting to know the best route back.

/

Akkarin slumped against the side of a hill. It was noon, with the sun beating down mercilessly. A good and welcome reason for a rest.

He was sweating profusely. Hopefully a spring could be found; if he couldn't find enough soon he'd have to use magic.

Oh, he could do that freely now! For the first time in years he was free to use his powers. He couldn't still feel the amazing pulsing sensation as he reached for it. Even after two days of using his power to create warmth shields and Heal his leg muscles almost numbed by the hours he spent weaving through the wasteland, there was still so much.

But it wasn't exactly his power, he reminded himself in disgust. It was the life of twenty slaves. And Dakova's.

He stared reverently at his hands. Specks of died blood were still under some of his fingernails; water was too precious. Who's blood was it?

After finally, after all these years, killing Dakova Akkarin had run blindly away. As the Ichani's breathing stopped something in Akkarin seemed to have disappeared. He couldn't say what had happened, but he'd gotten away from that cave for miles before calming down and realizing he should have returned to camp to get some supplies first. By then it was too late. Kariko might have been there at that time.

There had been no triumph as he took Dakova's power, some of which had been his. He'd spent the past three years looking forward to and hoping for this day, but when it came, he didn't know what his life meant anymore.

Krylia and the Guild seemed so far away. At first he'd despaired of going back. In order to returned, he'd have to go back more of less the way he had come, and that meant that that terrain was barren, without much food to scavenge.

But Karikio would come for him soon, so Akkarin had decided to try, not expecting for live but wanting to die…free.

After four years' practice, he knew where to find food, but that didn't mean he could find enough of it. Most places only had trees that had once born nuts or berries, but hopefully later on the wasteland had recovered more.

He used quite a lot of magic, though he involuntarily hesitated before doing so, always remembering the belt-whip cracking against his back.

He had on no shoes and only wore his tattered tunic and trousers. It was his third set in four years. The warmth shields at night used a lot of power, though he only warmed up the air around him until he wouldn't freeze.

Suddenly he heard faint hoof beats coming from where he'd just come. He looked around wildly and dove between a boulder and the hill, crouching with his heart racing as the noise got louder. No, please…

Then a bold reckless thought came to him:

I'll go down fighting.

There was a possibility that he'd overcome his pursuer, though Kariko must've known what Akkarin had done, and thus strengthening himself. At the least he'd get a fatal strike to hit him. He didn't want to go through what punishment Kariko would deal before he was killed. He'd seen enough in the past few years to prefer a quick death.

Akkarin felt his body tense, that long forgotten thrill of magical combat came again, but this time filled also with a sense of apprehension. Surprise was on his side. He got ready to strike.

The Ichani appeared. Akkarin sent out a powerful force strike a second before he saw the face of the rider. Then he saw who it was and hastily directed the strike, halfway to Takan, hurtling towards the right, where it exploded the side of a hill.

Surprised and shaken, Akkarin tried to stand, but he was shaking so badly that he collapsed. He wondered as he passed out why Takan had come, and on a horse.